Pose. Click. Beautiful. Click. Again.

While taking my senior pics (finally!) and looking at them on the photographer's camera, I realized something: I am a sexy bitch. Seriously. As I looked into the digital screen of the photogrpher's camera, I was shocked at what was staring back at me. Which, was me.

I'm really proud of my pictures. Because, face it, where else could I slide down a railing at the court house, climb a tree, sneak around the Cathedrial, run around a park AND play at the Civic Center? Oh yeah. That definitely happened.

Here's to the next 2 weeks!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Day of Silence

Seriously, people.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Stakes are high. Feeling lucky, punk?

I bet.

Remember that? I bet you can't eat all that. And, much to your mother's disappointment, you did. Quickly. Then laughed in triumph until your stomach lurched and then your friends were the ones laughing. I bet you won't talk to that cute girl (handsome guy) over there. And, against your better judgement, you did. They laughed, of course. In your face. But you were triumphant for taking the bet. Fool. You took the bait. The stakes were always soemthing dumb like if I win, you have to clean my room for a whole month. Or if you win, I'll stand in the hallway and say "I love Barney!" during lunch. Haha. Fool.

I bet you don't know I'm afraid. Oh my God, I'm so afraid. I'm afraid of tomorrow. I'm afraid of the day after. And the day after. All the uncertainty, all the anxiety... all the fears. I'm so afraid.

I bet you don't know why I write. Why I truly, truly write. The joy I feel when someone says "I liked it." Or the sadness I feel when someone hates it. I bet you didn't know I write to escape. That I have a haven within my own writing because I created it. How easy it is for me to express thoughts that I could never say in real life by simply putting quotes around it, absolving myself of all responsibility.

But bets are for children. Foolish children who don't know any better. Aren't they?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

So, tell me about your mother...

Studying Freud is nothing short of hilarious. And often times, humiliating. So far, my psychology class and I have concluded that I sold as a "pleasure slave" in my childhood which explains my urge to please my parents combined with my chastity and self-doubt. Yeah, thanks for that one guys.

Well, as part of a bonus assignment, some of us have decided to psychoanalyze popular characters using our understanding of Freud. Here's my analysis of Spongebob Squarepants:

Spongebob suffers from insecurity on many levels. Often seen wearing clean, neat, ironed and otherwise "straight-laced" clothing, the viewer can see that he is constantly seeking approval and is afraid to express himself in even the simplest manner. This need for approval as shown by his clothing can be attributed to his over-bearing mother. We can assume that Spongebob's mother always stressed the importance of appearances in the young sponge, forcing him to seek out the best opinions all his life. His attention to detail also shows a mild case of obsessive compulsive disorder, which is most definitely an attempt to further gain his mother's approval by becoming 'perfect'. This strive for perfection and attachment to his mother ultimately had to drive him away from his father, explaining his (at times) overly feminine qualities.

Many viewers question the reason why Spongebob doesn't engage in a romantic relationship with Sandy, a female. The two are constantly fighting each other in hand-to-hand battles or karate matches. Having a pinned-up frustration and adversity to all strong female figures--such as his boating school teacher, Mrs. Puff, from whom Spongebob also goes through great lengths to please by exhibiting good behavior--these sparring matches serve as a release. There is no clear winner of these fights, showing that Spongebob is afraid to overcome females in general.

Patrick is Spongebob's best friend. But this relationship only serves as an outlet to play out Spongebob's un-lived childhood. Because he wasn't allowed to run about, catch jellyfish and sing songs due to his mother's over-bearingness, he is constantly seen living out these fantasies with Patrick. And because Patrick is borderline mentally challenged, he serves as the perfect subject for this use. This need for an outlet to live out his childhood explains why Spongebob is quick to end any arguments or quarrels the two have.

Whew! And they have that rated as a show for preschoolers... pssssht. Where's my psychology degree?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

I wish I had a pin so I could drop it.

So, as I'm sitting at the Central Library right now and I notice one thing: it's quiet. I mean, it is absolutely silent in here. Is it because most people are too busy during their lunch hours running around, still chasing that caffiene high from the Starbucks earlier this morning to actually stop to read anything? Or maybe it's because it's only 1:15p and most all school-age children are in class right now and everyone knows they're the only people who truly use this place. But there are people here. Actual people doing actual work, here, at the library. Interesting. I should come here more often. I've always wanted to try people watching...

I see you. There, in the pink button-down shirt near the 'Self-Help' section. Your arms are folded in front of your chest. Are you insecure? Don't be shy. You glance once--twice over your shoulder before walking down the aisle to find your book. And you're gone.

Oh God! Was that a cell phone? Ah. I see you now. Your hand diving deep into your purse to find it as the ringtone gets louder. A very generic tone, don't you think? You're safe. Found it, have you? Good. Now go away. Lady, honestly, I don't care that you're at the "lie-berry." I know that. I can see you. And hear you. You are physically incapable of whispering. It's quite sad, actually. Are you serious? You're walking into the compact-shelving rows. Yeah, that'll drown out the noise. I can still hear your conversation. Speaking of which, be sure to pick up an elementary grammar book on your way out.

Who else... who else...?

You there! On the computer next to me. Yes, you. I can hear you typing. It must be important. You've been tack-tack-tacking away for nearly 3 whole minutes now. Let's see what is so important...An email. I see. You're writing long, long paragraphs and breathing quite deeply. This must be emotional for you. Breaking up with a girlfriend? Or perhaps responding to her rejection? Hmm.. a boyfriend, then? Yes, yes, I rather like that conclusion. You're writing a letter to your boyfriend. Telling him that you're sorry but you can't see him anymore. It was just a fling, you offer; telling him you never thought it would escalate this quickly. But he misses you terribly. He'll get over, you say? You're heartless.

This was fun. Thanks public library!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Drowning in a Stream of Unconsciousness

Unconscious: According to Freud, a reservoir of mostly unacceptable thoughts, wishes, feelings, and memories.

It's not your fault...

Then why do I feel this way? Why do I feel like I've messed up, or, rather, more precisely, fucked up? Why do I just want to crawl into an isolated hole and die? Why do I keep beating myself up over this? I want to keep beating myself up until I'm covered with bruises and I lose all feeling... Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so bad. Maybe then I can have an excuse to cry.

I hate this. Being weak. Making myself vulnerable. Not being able to concentrate because some proverbial devil is sitting my shoulder, pouring poison into my ear. "You've fucked up," he says. "And you know it. It's no one's fault but your own. And you know it. You've done this to yourself." And I know it. I know, I know, I want to scream back. I want to scream so loud that I shake the very foundations. But I can't. I'm too weak to fight back or say anything. The devil laughs in triumph and dances in the mind of the defeated girl.

I've lost. Not because I wasn't good enough. Not because someone else deserved the win. I've lost because I was too weak to finish.

Saddened? Of course. Ashamed? A little. Depressed? Never. Tomorrow is a new day with which the past can be erased.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Catharsis

It's been a while since I've actually had to time to stop, sit and write on my blog as I'd like to. Or breathe, for that matter. Between state, prom and that retarded speech event (not to mention all the drama that decided to tack itself on to them), I've been just exhausted. But, I'm back now. And there's much left to say...

So, I've noticed that I've been feeling a lot of tension lately. In my shoulders, back and legs. Usually I'd blame it on my backpack or the way I'm sleeping, but that can't be it. And after a very enlightening day in psychology, I now realize it's something much deeper than physiological pangs. In order to hopefully get rid of these pains and tensions, I think I have to have a release of some sort... Here goes:

This is everything I've been meaning to say but never had the courage to. Most is irrevalant as of now because most of the drama has worked itself out...

You! I trusted you. Why did you do this to me? You made me look like a fool--a fool who trusted you. And yet I find that you've been talking about me behind my back... calling me names that really hurt me. I know you're not the cold, calculating bitch everyone would make you out to be. I've seen your "good" side; it's what I love about you. I wish I could say things will be the same between us but you and I both know different. We'll never have what we had. Or, rather, what I believed we had. Stupid, stupid me. All I can hope now is that we can make the best of the new, broken, friendship we find ourselves in. Why didn't you come to me instead?

And you... Let's talk about poor, unfortunate you. You're always making yourself out to be the victim, aren't you? Life is just such an awful and dark place for you. You put on this air of mystery because you think it makes you feel good or seem cool-- I don't know. But you don't fool me. I know behind that facade is a scared little boy who truly doesn't know what he wants... only attention. And you'll do anything--ANYTHING--to get it. But why me? Why now? We trusted you. We let you in. And this is how you react? By rejecting every gesture we gave you as only our nature taught us how. Of course we were suspicious! How could we not be? You all but disappear for such a long time and now you're back and "in love"? Not exactly what we were prepared for. You wanted friendships and we tried. It takes time, you! But you couldn't wait, could you? You just couldn't not know what we said about you when you turned your back. So you found your way in. Well played. You turned cracks to chasms and nearly turned us on each other. Such audacity! We friends, yes. But I still can't believe you soemtimes... Why didn't you give us a chance?

Haha, you. I love you, you know that? Through all of this you were the only one who managed to stay out of all the bullshit and backstabbing. You didn't allow yourself to get sucked in. It's amazing. I admire you. You did what I wish we all could've done: keep your head down and your mouth shut. Why can't more people be like you?

Lastly, but most certainly not least, you. You have no idea what you do to me, do you? You couldn't possibily know what you do to me everytime you even look at me... That cool, confident look. It's almost as if you know and you enjoy seeing me dance in your clutches... Almost. And, then, at times, you're so oblivious. So utterly clueless. It's.. refreshing. For so long, I tried to figure what it was was about you that first attracted me. I now know. I love what we are now. Friends. But I can't help but to wonder if there could ever be more. Sad, really. Completely pathetic on my part. Are you afraid... or just apathetic?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - As I said, some--most--of the things I've wrote are past. I don't feel this way anymore. But I'm not going to deny that I did at one time. But psychology has enlightened me to the healthy benefits of releasing such thoughts. -sigh- I do feel a little better.